


Baxt

by herequeerandreadytofight



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Gay stuff lol, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-20 08:29:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16552379
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herequeerandreadytofight/pseuds/herequeerandreadytofight
Summary: What better place to meet a girl than a jail cell? AKA badass OFC meets and is wooed by Esme





	Baxt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ashling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashling/gifts).



You sit in the window seat, licking chocolate off of your fingers, and watching the bustle of the street below. It was undeniable that things had changed since that new Irish copper had come to town, but then again, things had changed since Tommy Shelby had hired Mei to cast a spell on that horse, and things had changed since the war, and things would continue changing. You slip on your boots and an extra sweater to guard against the closest Birmingham had to snow, and tuck your pocket knife into your boot before twisting your curtain of hair into as much of a braid as you feel like and then you’re down the steps and out the door. Even if you hadn’t lived here twenty years, you’d be a damn fool if you left the house alone without a weapon. Especially doing what you were going to do. 

You navigate on foot without really thinking about it, half humming a song you’d overheard on the gramophone. Mei’s brother had jury rigged a broken one, patched with what he could beg, borrow, or steal. He was probably definitely a genius, but the Zhangs hadn’t been able to afford the school fees after his wife died, and here he was, corralling white men into getting their shirts cleaned while they smoked or fucked or both. The remainder of why you’re here added an extra purpose to your steps, boots clicking against the cobblestone. Jeremiah nods to you without breaking in his tirade. He’d come to your church every once in a while, his hat always tucked respectfully between his hands at his lap. He’d even dragged Isaiah there once, although she was fairly sure he’d never quite forgiven you for pushing him into the mud after he’d stolen your mooncake. The men who’d stop and gawk at Jeremiah weren’t the ones you were looking for, though. Either they were desperate enough that they were already seeking absolution, or they were still sober enough to notice their surroundings. Finally, you linger next to the Garrison. Tommy Shelby’s fucking gang never came through until later, and it was payday. 

You’d lifted from about five men and had made it all the way down to the Black Rose when you feel a hand grab onto your shoulder, and, quick enough, you pull your knife out to face- oh, fuck. 

“What now, Jerry?” 

“Sorry, Tara.” Jerry says cheerfully as he handcuffs your hands behind your back. Jerry’s wife has made it her life’s mission to coerce your sister into working for her, and Jerry has been sent to your house with hand me downs, books, and once, American chocolate. This is definitely a new technique. “This new copper, he says we have to pull at least three a week and I’ve only gotten two.” 

He pulled a pound note out of your sweater pocket. “I’m confiscating this, and I’m taking you in.” 

“Katie’s making scones for tea and if I miss them-” you huff. 

“You’ll be out by tea.” 

But when you get there, the cells are packed. Jerry apparently hadn’t been the only one who’d put off his arrests, and you’re shoved into a room with three other women and two beds. They took away your pocket knife, but you still have the money tucked in your socks, right boot, and, uncomfortably crinkling in your brasserie. One woman, hugely pregnant, offers a quick smile as she rubs her stomach. The other woman, haughty and poised like she’s posing for an oil painting instead of sitting a prison, scans you up and down without missing a beat in what you’d assume is her recitation of the rosary based on the beads in her hands. The last occupant of the cell is idly combing her fingers through her hair, carefully avoiding the side of her face where an enormous bruise has appeared. Her hair is nearly as long as yours, but wavy, and it’s escaping her braid in wild sections. She looks at you warily through her hair, but shifts over on the narrow bed to let you sit. You sit. The pregnant woman leans in. 

“Are you alright there, love? They didn’t get rough with you or anything?” 

Sure, Jerry had jostled you a bit, but nothing egregious. You shake your head. 

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Rosa. She’s fucking fine.” 

“Don’t you get snippy with me, Polly Grey. It’s not my fault Arthur isn’t here.” She settled back in against the bed before continuing. “Snapping at me. I practically helped raise those nephews of yours.” 

Polly sighs and presses her face against the bars. From a distance there’s a clatter, followed by rapid footsteps down the hallway. A man who seems to radiate rage strides within view, followed by the policeman who had taken your name, who nervously fumbles with the keys until he finds the right one. The cell is unlocked, Polly slips out, and in a smooth motion twists the ear of the man. 

“Arthur Shelby, you ought to be ashamed.” 

“Sorry, Aunt Pol.” He squints. “You alright, Mrs. Kavinsky?” 

The pregnant woman waves her hand. “Don’t you worry about me, Arthur. I’ve had much worse.” 

Polly’s heels click down the hallway, followed by Arthur. The policeman locks the cell again, but before he can turn away, you spring forward. 

“Excuse me, when can I get word to my family?” 

The policeman shakes his head. “Sorry, love. We’re full up. You might have to wait overnight.” 

You sigh and sink back onto the bed. Not only were you really looking forward to the scones, but you’d promised Mei you would babysit tomorrow morning. The pregnant woman makes a sympathetic face.  
The girl next to you has done an elaborate braid in the time it’s taken for this family drama to play out, and the face it reveals, massive bruise aside, is absolutely gorgeous. She smiles at you and you can feel your heart thud. 

“I can do you if you want.” 

You flush, but nod because ultimately, it’s been a shitty afternoon and you’re hungry and you might as well let a pretty girl braid your hair. She settles behind you, carding her fingers through your hair. 

“What’d you do?” 

“Nothing” shoots out of your mouth automatically, because you aren’t stupid and she’s a stranger. 

She huffs out a laugh and you can feel her breath on the back of your neck. 

“I went into the Garrison and drank all the whiskey and now they’ve locked me up for my own protection.” 

This gets a real laugh, that’s deep and hearty in a way that can’t be faked, and she pins a section of your hair back. 

“And here I was thinking I was hard for kicking John Shelby in the balls.” 

You whip your head around in shock and Rosa, who has arranged herself in a complicated looking position with the pillow, chuckles. She gently turns your head away from her and the feeling of her fingers on your skin is...a lot. Your hair pulls tight against your scalp as she begins braiding.

“Are you serious? Because I couldn’t drink that much whiskey, I’d die.”

“Swear on my mother. He was drunk and I was walking home, and he grabbed my shoulder and told me I had nice tits, I told him to fuck off, and here I am.” 

“He gave you that bruise?”

“After I kicked him, yeah. I should have ran away, but I asked him if he wanted someone to talk to his daughter like that.”

You burst out laughing but the girl shushes you, softly. You turn to see Rosa snoring, dead to the world in a way that screams motherhood. Her fingers twist through your hair expertly. 

“Are you going to be alright once you leave?” you murmur. 

“His aunt listened to me. She said if he tried it again, she’d cut his hand off.” 

“That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard. You should start your own gang.” 

“Maybe I should. Only women.” 

“I’d join.” 

“Esme Lee and..?”

“Tara. Chen.” 

“The Chen-Lee gang.” 

“I’m not wearing those stupid hats though. Or getting a bad haircut.” 

“No, it’d be a pity to cut that hair of yours.” She tugs lightly at the end of your now finished braid, and holds up one of her many necklaces. The front is an icon of the Black Madonna, but the back is just polished enough that you can see the elaborately styled braid. She wove a ribbon through it. You’re a little bit in love. 

The sun’s setting now, through the smoke of the factories, and the little light that remains catches on the Esme’s earrings and necklaces, and you wish you could reach out and...and you don’t know, but Rosa’s still snoring in the corner and the hallway’s silent and you reach out and tuck a piece of hair away from her face, careful not to bump the bruise. She beams at you and it’s like looking at a flower bloom. A tray’s delivered, with some stale but not moldy bread and surprisingly alright cheese. Esme pulls a pocket knife out of her chemise and divies it up, more or less equally and you chew it in silence, your arms occasionally brushing. 

Jerry comes by, looking apologetic. “Tara, we can’t get you out till dawn. My missus is over explaining to your parents.” With another bribe, no doubt. You acknowledge him with a nod and an internal scream of rage. Esme watches him leave with wary eyes. 

“You know him?” 

You wrinkle your nose at Jerry’s back. “His wife wants my sister to be her cook.” 

“And? That can be a good job.” 

“She needs to finish school first. She’s a smart girl, she can do anything she wants.” 

Esme hums in agreement. “Is that why you have a pound note sticking out of your shirt?” 

You shove it further down. “School fees are expensive.” 

“I’m not judging you. Half the shit I’m wearing is stolen.” 

“Fair enough.”

Rosa sits up, a particularly disgruntled expression on her face. You pass her her section of bread and cheese, which she chews silently. She presses lightly against her stomach, then, lightning fast, sticks a hand up and under her skirt. 

“Shit.” She says, before there’s a growing puddle on the bed underneath her. 

Esme realizes what’s happening before you do, and shifts Rosa, who is gulping down air like she’d just ran from the Garrison to the Black Rose, to the edge of the bed. You sit next to her, rubbing her back and talking to her like you do with the babies, soft and low. Esme helps her wriggle out of her bloomers and flips up her skirt. 

“Jesus Christ, the baby’s nearly fucking here.” She looks up at Rosa, whose face is rapidly turning red. 

“How long have you been having pains?” 

“All day” Rosa huffs. She clutches your pro-offered hand tight enough that her wedding ring is cutting into your hand. 

“Why didn’t you say anything to the copper? They wouldn’t keep you here if they knew you were going to have a fucking baby in jail.” 

Rosa moans something about the cause, before beginning to pant harder. She pushes against your hand as she struggles to stand. 

“Should you be doing that?” You turn to Esme. “Should she be doing that?” 

Esme shrugs, but Rosa nods, and, still clutching your hand, she walks a short circuit across the cell, back and forth. 

It turns out Esme’s assessment wasn’t quite right, and two hours later Rosa’s still pacing the cell, pausing every few minutes to lean against the wall. She’s cheerily informed you both this is the seventh time she’s given birth, and since this will be her seventh child, she’s already run through parents, aunts, uncles, and Communist leaders. 

“All I’m saying is you can’t name him Sylvain. He’ll get the shit kicked out of him.” 

“But he was one of the first anarchist thinkers!” 

Esme shakes her head. “What’s wrong with fucking Peter.” 

Rosa lights up. “Like Peter Kropotkin.” 

You and Esme share a look. 

“Yeah.”

Rosa resumes her pacing, muttering about potential middle names- Sylvain still sounds high on the list, poor thing, and Esme collapses on the bed next to you. 

“I’m taking a nap.” She announces, before leaning against you and nestling into your shoulder. 

“I can move” you mutter, but Esme shakes her head. 

“I trust your shoulder more than I trust that bed, and I’m not getting lice.” After a few minutes of silence, you feel her go slack against you and hear her breathing deepen. Your arm rests behind her and before you can fully stop yourself, you press it around her back. Looking up, you see that Rosa has noticed, but she’s giving you a smug smile. 

“I met my husband at a strike, you know.” 

You blush, but now you’re curious, so you lean in and let Rosa tell you the story of how she’d nearly smacked him because she’d thought he was a scab, but he was one of the primary orchestrators, and they’d gotten married so she couldn’t be compelled to testify against him and so he wouldn’t be deported back to Russia and it’s pogroms but had fallen in love for real, and now here she was, arrested at a meeting that had gotten broken up by the coppers while her husband watched the kids at home. She pushes herself up onto the bed, and reclines with the pillow up under her back, rubbing her belly in slow circles as she breathes deeply. You let the room lapse into silence as you feel Esme’s weight against you, and the faint smell of campfire coming from her cardigan but also somehow lemons and oh dear. She had a knife and good hair and knew what to do with a pregnant woman in labor. Oh dear, oh dear. She had drooled a little onto your shoulder, but somehow that was sweet. You leaned down until your head was on top of hers and you relaxed enough to forget that you were in prison and tired and hungry and worried about Katie and Mei’s baby who had a bit of a cough and that your boots would need replacing soon. 

Of course, all the tension returned to your shoulders as Rosa made a noise somewhere between a groan and a yell, loud enough to wake Esme up. She rubbed at her eyes briskly before helping Rosa over so her feet were on the floor but her back rested on the bed. Rosa grabs for your hand, and you tell her over and over and over how strong she is, how she’s going to meet her baby soon, while Esme crouches near her feet. Finally, Rosa screams and pushes and holy fuck, that’s a head and then a body and then there’s a loud wail and you’re crying but so is Esme, and Rosa reaches her arms for her new baby. You hug Esme, covered in blood, and you hold each other there for a minute until Rosa groans and pushes again. 

“Holy shit, twins.” Esme passes the baby to you and kneels again. You cradle the baby, who, in all honesty, is absolutely covered in things you don’t want to name, so you swaddle her carefully in the shirt you wear closest to your skin which is soft and faded from too many washings. Making sure to support her neck, you hold her close as her mother screams until there’s another cry, and Esme’s holding another baby. Rosa collapses against the wall with a beatific smile on her face and barely moves when she delivers her placenta. Esme places the baby she’s cooing at into Rosa’s arms, and ties off the placenta in a quick motion. You shuck another inner layer, and pass it to Rosa who swaddles it, then reaches for the other baby. 

“Hello, my loves. Welcome to the world.”

Esme sinks into the bed beside you after rinsing her hands in the rusted tap. 

“We should talk to the warden. Cramming five people into a cell like this.” 

You laugh and Esme laughs and Rosa laughs and, well, one of the babies cries but Rosa unbuttons her shirt quick enough and it’s a nice moment. 

“I suppose Sylvain is definitely off the table now.” 

Rosa looks up with a wicked grin. “But Sylvie isn’t. Sylvie Esme and Patricia Tara.” 

You choke up, and almost reach across for a hug before you realize that you’d have to juggle two babies, one of whom is feeding, and sit back down. Esme squeezes your arm. 

“They can join our gang when they’re older.” 

Fortunately, soon enough, a horrified police officer sees what’s happened and lets you all out after you slip him just enough that this stay won’t be recorded in your file, Esme’s (substantially thicker one), or Rosa’s (two files and a poster). You breathe in the air, which yeah, smells like smoke and shit, but the wind brushes against your face and it’s a full moon. Supporting Rosa with one arm, and clutching Patricia (you think) with the other, the three of you stride across the mostly deserted streets. It’s nearly two according to the pocket watch Esme has hidden in an inner pocket, but somehow you aren’t afraid to be on the streets so late. Rosa’s flat is the only one on the street with a light still on, and as you approach, a man who’s the approximate height and breadth of the fucking Titanic comes clattering down the steps. He kisses her in a way you’ve only seen at the train station after the war, the same ardent desperation, before turning to look at the two of you.  
“Did-” 

Rosa nods, and this mountain of a man starts to cry, before approaching the bundle you hold in your arms. 

“Hello, little one.” Although his accented voice echoes off the crowded houses, his tone is pure reverence. 

“Aren’t you going to say hello to your other daughter?” 

His face absolutely lights up, and he turns to Esme, smiling down at probably-Sylvie. (Look, you’ve been around babies your entire life, and it is a known fact that all newborns look mildly smushed and a little like your grandfather.) He kisses Rosa once more before hoisting her off her feet and carrying her through the open door. 

“Please, come in.” Rosa calls over her husband’s shoulder. 

Once inside, Rosa sits at the kitchen table, feeding the other baby while her husband makes tea. He puts the cups in front of you, and sloshes some whiskey in as well. He pours himself a cup of mostly whiskey, and Rosa steals a sip.

“A toast! To my beautiful wife and our newest children.” 

You and Esme clink chipped mugs. Esme swallows it down, and Rosa’s husband refills it with only whiskey. You sip, grimacing, but it warms you up and lets you lean against Esme’s side without thinking about it too much. A cup and a half for you, and three cups for Esme and Rosa’s husband, who’s name, you learn, is Abram, later, Rosa’s snoring and Esme’s speech is slightly slurred. Abram shakes both of your hands heartily and offers his thanks while bestowing a bottle of vodka into Esme’s hands- ‘My tyosha, she make it-’ before gently scooping Rosa up and into what you assume is the bedroom. 

“I suppose that’s our cue.” You say, and extend your hand to Esme. She accepts, and the two of you make your way down the stairs arm in arm. 

“Sarah, have you ever ridden a horse?” 

“No, but I’ve always wanted to learn.” In all honesty, you were jealous that Mei was the one chosen to do the powder trick with Tommy Shelby’s gorgeous horse. You’d watched him ride away, half wishing it was you on that sleek black horse. 

Esme gestures broadly at the empty street. “The night is young.” She held your hand as you both made your way to the docks, ostensibly for balance but at a certain point, your fingers intertwined. You both duck around empty cargo crates, swapping the vodka bottle between the two of you, though Esme’s probably had nearly double what you’ve had and is still twice as steady on her feet. A bleary-eyed guard doesn’t even stir as you creep past. 

“Hiya Curly.” 

“Esme!” The man who had been sitting on a box with a cup of tea stands and embraces Esme, before tugging her towards the stables. 

“Curly, this is my friend Tara. Tara, Curly.” 

You lean into Esme and whisper “Doesn’t he work for the Blinders?” 

She shrugs. “We met at the fair and he lets me ride when the city gets too much. I don’t particularly care who he works for.” 

You come upon that gorgeous horse Tommy Shelby had rode down your street, and he whickers softly before Esme strokes his flank. 

“This is Monaghan Boy, but I call him Baxt.” 

“What does that mean?” You tentatively stroke him too. You don’t get kicked in the head which is already an improvement from what you’d thought might happen. 

“Luck.” Esme’s expression clouds over for a moment. 

“When I was younger, I wanted to be a cowgirl” you offer. “I watched all these American films about it. I thought I could be like Teddy Roosevelt without the imperialism.” 

Esme smiles again, and knits her hands together. She offers them to you, and, using her shoulder, you clamber onto the horse, who snorts but doesn’t object. Esme swings herself on in front of you and wraps your hands around her waist as she clucks to Baxt who moves forward gentle as anything. Curly tips his hat as the two of you leave the stable. You clutch Esme tighter as Baxt picks up the pace until he’s at a full gallop down the empty streets of Birmingham. 

Eventually, you’re on a hill just outside the city, looking down at the electric lamps and the clamor. The air already smells sweeter. Esme looks wistfully around the hillside as she slides off Baxt. 

“My family camped here, once.” 

“It’s beautiful.” 

Esme smiles at you and your heart stutters. “I pushed my cousin down, and while he was screaming about it I hid in that tree for hours.” She steps closer to you and offers you a hand, but your descent is a little less graceful and you stumble. She catches you in her arms and lowers her face closer to yours. 

“Can I?” 

You nod, frantically, and soon the two of you are kissing, framed in the moonlight above Birmingham.


End file.
